


Iba Rin 'Pag Tayo Lang

by placidings



Series: How We Say 'I Love You' [1]
Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Juanito's violin makes an appearance, M/M, May be slightly OOC, Post-Coital, Silent Sanctuary does too, theyre capable of being soft i believe, this is their first time saying i love you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 04:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15162278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: He had always known Juanito was raised to play the violin. In fact, he still keeps it in their closet, right underneath the rack of shoes, its leather case greying with dust and time, but he has never seen him hold it, much less play it. Placido pins the blame on his hectic work schedule and his perpetual lethargy as soon as the sun sets, but Juanito's musical inclination feels like a secret he hasn't told him, the one part of him he hasn’t bared yet.It shouldn't bother him, but it's there, an itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch.





	Iba Rin 'Pag Tayo Lang

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This fic is a part of a longer fic of sorts, something kinda like a tiny penilaez anthology that got _way_ out of hand. All of them turned into fics with their own plots, so I decided to chop 'em up into parts, which brings us here! This fic series is entirely dedicated to [Nikki](https://twitter.com/ekstuhsea), because she just turned 18 (like a month ago, but better late than never, i guess)! 
> 
> While we're at it, this song comes in handy here :--)

Juanito's hands are surprisingly calloused.

The tips of his fingers bear hardened skin, the soft meat right below his thumbs rough and patchy. On his palms, dancing between the lines, are jagged scars; others faded (almost blending into his skin), the others white and peeling. Placido doesn't mind the coarseness when they touch, but every scar, every patch of rough skin ignites a flare of curiosity in him—he had always known Juanito was raised to play the violin. In fact, he still keeps it in their closet, right underneath the rack of shoes, its leather case greying with dust and time, but he has never seen him hold it, much less play it. Placido pins the blame on his hectic work schedule and his perpetual lethargy as soon as the sun sets, but Juanito's musical inclination feels like a secret he hasn't told him, the one part of him he hasn’t bared yet.

It shouldn't bother him, but it's there, an itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch. Placido wrinkles his nose and presses closer to Juanito's body as he takes his hand in his, studying every line and scar and callus; tracing shapes on his skin, playing with his fingers; hoping to will the thought away. He has never been the type to pry, after all—what Juanito wanted to say, he said it without any hesitations, and Placido thought it was safe to assume that anything he doesn’t mention isn’t anything he wants to talk about.

"Anything wrong?" Juanito asks; intertwining their fingers. His hands have always been bigger than his—bigger, rougher, warmer. Safer. He remembers how he hated how much he touched him back then, but now, those hands mean comfort. "That's your thinking face."

Placido quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head upward to look at him. "I have a thinking face?"

"You do. You scrunch your nose up and your frown gets deeper than usual, then you chew on the inside of your cheek or your lip. It's adorable."

"I'm 26, not 16. I'm not adorable."

"Beautiful, then."

Placido groans and untangles his hand from his; opting to drape an arm over his bare waist. He tucks himself under his chin to hide the flush creeping up his cheeks. "Stop that."

Juanito laughs quietly; a deep rumble that fades out into his voice, gentle yet unbelievably husky (sexy) in the silence of their bedroom. "But no, seriously, what is it?”

It's one of those lazy weekends, the rain is pounding the streets outside their windows, and the wind whistles as it runs through the city streets. They're tangled together beneath the sheets, basking in the warmth emanating from each other’s bare skin, skin riddled with scratches and bruises from nails dragging down backs and lips sucking on tender flesh. If there's a perfect timing for Placido's curiosity to be sated, it's now; when they're both bare and vulnerable and basking in the afterglow; bodies still thrumming with sensitivity and skin still marked in places.

If anything, Placido knows how to play his cards right. He’s never the type to pry, but he never lets his curiosity remain unsated, either.

"I've never heard you play before."

His words, though whispered, echo in the vacuum silence—Juanito tenses under his arm but does not say a word. Placido counts his breaths— _one, two, three, four_ —and then, "I—I never thought of that before."

Juanito's voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost wistful, tinged with the faintest hint of regret. Placido pushes himself up on his forearm to look him in the face, and what he finds are soft eyes staring in the distance, chasing a memory only he can see. He cradles his chin gently, and Juanito's gaze snaps to his.

"Play for me."

Placido strokes his cheek with his thumb absently, watching as Juanito’s face shifts into surprise, interest, and finally, something bittersweet. The small quirk of his lips does not reach his eyes, and that alone is worrying—Juanito’s smiles are bright and effervescent, rarely ever sad and empty. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Juanito places his hand over his. He takes a moment to clear his throat before he answers, and his voice comes out scratchier, quieter. “I—I haven’t played since I entered college.”

Placido frowns, taken aback by the revelation. “What—I thought—“

“No,” Juanito shakes his head sadly. “I stopped playing. I—um, I didn’t get into the UP Conservatory because I failed the practical exam. I don’t know, playing hurt a lot after that. I—uh, I’m not good enough for it. I just remember every time I do, it’s frustrating as hell, and besides, it doesn’t fit into the life I have now.”

Placido doesn’t answer—what is he supposed to say to that, a clear admission of one of the things that haunt him? All this time, he had thought Juanito Pelaez was a person who lived with absolutely no regrets, no ghosts, and no demons, yet here he is. Placido doesn’t answer. He isn’t good with words, and Juanito knows this; he only hopes his touch, his hands are enough to comfort him, maybe staunch the wound he inadvertently reopened.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” Placido mumbles, tearing his gaze away. “I didn’t know. I thought you still played, you kept the violin, after all.”

“That’s the thing. I keep it near me, hoping maybe one day I’d have the courage to pick it up again. It’s been years, and I never did. I don’t know, I—knowing that’s it, this is _me_ , this is all that I’ll ever be haunts me.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Placido meets Juanito’s eyes once again, and his somber countenance almost dampens his resolve. It’s selfish, he knows, but Juanito has been nothing but supportive the past six years he’s known him, always egging Placido on and nudging him towards things he wanted to do but never allowed himself to.

“Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Play. Do you want to play?”

Juanito hesitates, and that is an answer in itself—that is a face he knows he's worn a thousand times over. That is a face he's seen on himself every time Juanito gives him a well-needed push (or shove, or nudge, depending on the situation).

He nods once. Placido almost smiles.

"Do it for me, then."

This is for him—Placido thinks, watching as Juanito totters on the edge of assent and refusal. Could his request still be called selfish when his purpose has been changed into bringing his smile back, to bringing his music to life once again? When he matters more than just hearing how he plays?

“Yeah, okay,” Juanito finally whispers, kissing his palm. “Anything for you, babe.”

Juanito swings his legs over the edge of their bed and dresses. He pads to the closet, takes a deep breath, opens the doors, pulls the violin case out. His fingers tremble as he unlocks it. He doesn’t bother to blow the dust off, leaving handprints as he goes. When he pulls the violin out he can see his fingers trembling; his eyes turn glassy as he holds the instrument in his hands; a flush is high on his cheeks, and this is how Placido knows he’s caught between exhilaration and fear. His hands shake, his touch is hesitant, even as he lays the instrument reverently between the two of them—Plaicdo notes that its glossy surface isn’t as perfect as it looks, the wood is riddled with scratches and chipped varnish, the strings look well-worn, the knobs twisted this way and that.

"I've had this since I was twelve, I think," Juanito says as Placido runs his fingers along the surface. "I broke the first one I had, the one I got when I was six. I couldn't perfect the piece my teacher wanted me to do, and I wanted to quit, so I tossed the thing out the window. My father had been _livid_."

Placido snorts. "That sounds just like something only you would do."

Juanito only laughs in response—it’s different, muted with nostalgia. "I know, right? I hated it. But then my father got me a new one and basically forced more lessons down my throat, so I thought, why not learn to love it? Somewhere along the way, I did, somehow. I think it's because I liked the way it sounds—have you ever noticed how it can sound sad and lonely, but also light and happy, depending on how you play? It isn't constant, the way a drum or a guitar sounds. It's, uh—the perfect instrument to project feelings on, I guess? I—well. I may have, more than once."

He looks sheepish and hesitant, but his eyes are alight with excitement—it’s almost dorky, in a way, a sharp contrast to his carefree and laid-back nature. Juanito Pelaez, the music nerd. Placido finds himself suppressing a smile at that, at the way Juanito scratches the back of his neck shyly, looking at anything except him.

"Never would’ve pegged you as the musically-inclined type."

"Oh, shut up," Juanito rolls his eyes, albeit fondly; as he reaches for the violin. He starts adjusting the knobs, tuning the strings. It’s steady. Familiar. "Just because I listen to crappy pop and punk rock doesn't mean I don't know Tchaikovsky."

"Who?"

He pauses, mid-twist; looking affronted. "You're serious? Are you serious? No, you've got to be ki—no way, Placido, you've been listening to Tchaikovsky the entire time you were reviewing last night, and you're telling me you don't know him? This is blasphemy."

Placido bursts into laughter. " _Oh my god_."

"I can't believe you," Juanito nestles the violin between his chin and shoulder. "I can't— _god_ , stop laughing, damn it. Stop that."

"I'm sorry, you just looked so offended that I didn't know Tchaikovsky—which is a lie, of course, what makes you think I listen to random classical pieces without knowing who wrote them—"

"—he's from the _romantic_ era, and it's called composing—"

"—I’m not a Neanderthal. And besides, classical music is supposed to boost brain power, so why not, right?"

Juanito snorts. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for the bow, gives the strings an experimental drag. He winces at the awkward whine it produces—something like a cross between a dying animal and a scream—and starts turning and twisting the knobs once again. Placido sits and watches. It’s mesmerizing to watch him in his element: his face shifts into dislike, more winces, a small cringe, and finally, a smile of satisfaction once the violin sounds the way it should. His hands are sure and steady and unwavering, as though he never stopped playing. Like he’s done this for his entire life.

He hefts the instrument back between his chin and shoulder.

Placido can't help the grin tugging at his lips. "You gonna play some Tchaikovsky for me?"

"Of course not, I don't have the sheet music," Juanito shoots him a look as Placido grins even wider. He rolls his eyes, but his face melts into something resembling sheepishness. “I—um, I lied. I tried to play again, once, during our third year. I wanted to—um, fuck—impress you, so I learned to play along to this one song I really liked. It basically said everything I wanted to tell you back then, and it had violin in the background, so why not, right?”

Placido’s grin slides right off his face, a lump gathers in his throat—their third year had been their most turbulent year with explosive fights and banter meant to wound. “Remember how much I cut class? It’s because I couldn’t stand being around you for long, knowing my hopeless crush would just get worse while you looked like you wanted nothing to do with me. I practiced then, until my fingers bled, but then I remembered how it wasn’t enough before, so why would I be enough then?”

He doesn’t give Placido a chance to answer, waving a dismissive hand. Juanito reaches for his phone and scrolls through something, and when he lays it on his thigh, Placido registers a familiar song—soft lyrics, quiet piano, a song made for confessions. _Sa’yo_.

His heart drops to his stomach. By now, Juanito has his eyes closed, fully immersed in the song; oblivious to how his mouth has fallen agape, to the way his breath is knocked out of his lungs, to the way his chest squeezes as he starts playing.

And by _god_ , Placido is in a state of complete and utter awe—he has never seen a more fascinating sight than Juanito Pelaez playing the violin with absolute ease, his muscles relaxed and his face calm as he treads familiar terrain. It's easy, his fingers deft and light as he switches notes, and he expertly drags the bow in varying speeds; the music he produces is unlike anything he's ever heard before. It's different. It’s calming in its softness; it’s vulnerable, as though the instrument speaks for Juanito himself. He has never looked as beautiful as he does now.

This is an entirely different side of Juanito he has never seen before, and he would hate to admit it, but he's in love.

He has _known_ this ever since the night they first fought. But to see him so happy and relaxed doing something he has loved even before him is an entirely different thing altogether, and Placido feels like he's being pulled into that abyss again; like the ground underneath his feet crumbled once again, leaving him falling into something deeper, maybe something unfathomable. His chest is warm with nothing but adoration, and some part of him knows that had Juanito pushed through with his plans of actually _serenading_ him with this song, he would’ve jumped in right then and there. It would’ve been hard to refuse, not when Juanito’s baring his soul to him like _this_. Not when passion is etched into every line in his body as he chases the music’s climax, violin creating a steady crescendo; not when he’s subtly nodding along as it explodes into a flurry of drums and piano and the violin, _his_ violin, right at the song’s peak. Placido’s breath hitches in his throat. Juanito doesn’t open his eyes until the song ends.

“What—what do you think?” Juanito asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He lays the instrument beside him. “Does it suck? I haven’t pla—“

Placido only pulls him in and closes the distance between them; Juanito stiffens in surprise. He keeps his lips on his until Juanito responds, until he pushes them over, him over Placido; slotting their mouths together even deeper.

Placido laces his fingers through his hair and tugs gently on the strands. Juanito pulls away, his forehead resting on his, face so close he can count his eyelashes if he tried. "It's okay," Placido whispers against his lips. "It's perfect.”

Juanito hums, shutting his eyes, kissing him once more.

The next time he pulls away, Placido is _sure_ this is what he wants.

"I love you,” he whispers, his hands slipping down to cradle Juanito’s face. “ _Mahal kita_ , Juanito."

Juanito only stares at him, eyes searching his. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again before he falls into the crook of his neck, chuckling as he does so.

" _Wow_ ," Juanito says into his skin moments later, voice choked up. "I thought I didn’t stand a chance, and now here you are, teasing me about Tchaikovsky--"

Placido laughs.

“—and getting me to play again. I—I didn’t think we’d reach this far. I didn’t think I’d get the chance to tell you I love you. I love you too, _mahal kita, mahal na mahal kita_.”

**Author's Note:**

> i ran the risk of this looking ooc, because we know them as _that_ couple who thrive on bickering, and that both of them dont look particularly inclined towards affection like this. but hey, they're older, probs more mature, so why not, right?
> 
> hmu on twitter!


End file.
